A Message for Mr Lopez

Happy summer days to everyone in the nothern hemisphere :)
So, 25-odd years ago in New Zealand, 1984, a young girl by the name of Sacha was killed in a drink-drive accident. She was a passenger in a car that was hit head-on by a Chile diplomat, who went on to claim diplomatic immunity and was quickly flown out of the country. He was taken back to Chile and no justice has ever been served for this family who lost a daugher just a month shy of her 21st birthday. The poem was written by the partner of her father, Carol in 2009, who saw how the crash devastated the family. The poem was then sent on to the Chile government, where they have formerly and officially apologized and offered to have a memorial service for Sacha which is going to be held in May.

So this is for Sacha 1963 - 1984

A message for Mr Lopez

I was in Santiago the other day,

Mr Lopez, first time in my life,

And I was intending to look you up.

I'm not sure what I would have said

if I'd knocked on your door and found

you home. If a woman, your wife or

even a daughter, had called over

the balcony or the intercom ¿hola?

You see, Mr Lopez, I'm not sure

what I want from you any more.

The phone directory has many Lopez

as you of course would know -

they're rare where I come from - but just three listed as Luis Felipe.

Perhaps you're all related: elderly father,

your eldest son and you, Mr Lopez,

the diplomat. Are you still an embassy

man or did you switch your line

of work after the immunity wore off?

I'd been rehearsing our meeting

all these years but, somehow I got

to Chile and my heart wasn't in it.

What was I going to say to you:

Hi, Mr Lopez, I'd like a word

about my daughter?

Would it hurt if I told you she was

twenty, tall and beautiful, unsure

as some striking people are,

and gifted, an artist with a promising

future. Paintings are all I have.

Hi, Mr Lopez, I could have said,

I'm the father of the girl you killed

when you drove dead-drunk

in a new car in a new country

on the wrong side of a road.

Would it hurt if I told you, last time

I saw her, I promised her oil paints

for Christmas and watched her small plane

until it was just a speck in a summer sky.

You! You crossed the centre line

a third time, saw the headlights and

swerved - not to the left, your side

of the road, which might have

saved her - but to the right,

Luis Felipe Lopez, to the right.

Hi, Mr Lopez, I could have said

in Santiago, please step outside,

I'm going to kill you.

They missed you at the inquest.

The coroner's man couldn't get

Sacha's name right - he called her

'Sacka', as if she were a sack of nothing -

but he had yours down pat.

I have one daughter left alive.

On birthdays and death days

and in the early mornings, you are

not far from our thoughts, Luis -

can I call you that? I wonder if

the 'car accident', fool phrase,

wrecked your life as it did ours.

What price did you have to pay,

loyal servant of General Pinochet,

for slaughter in a foreign city?

When you hug your own daughter,

do you sometimes think of Sacha.

I sat on the bed in my hotel room

in your city ringed with mountains,

three likely numbers in my hand, and

I knew it was over. To tamp down

my bitterness, concentrate my sadness,

I tried to put myself in your shoes,

to imagine what it must be like

to be a killer. I tried but I cannot.

No, Luis Felipe Lopez,

I do not want to see your face.